At the twenty-first hour of consciousness,
When my cortex has been
Sliced,
Lightly battered,
Deep-fried,
And garnished with lime,
A spider crawls into my ear.
It travels up the aural canal,
Gets to the ear drum and says,
“Hey,
I want to go further.
I’m trying to get to the calamari,
Excuse me.”
And, of course, the ear drum says nothing.
“Fine,” the spider says. “I’ll find another way.”
So, it exits the ear, crosses my forehead,
(grumbling all the way)
And enters the opposite one.
“Haha,” it says. “That’s what I’m talking about.”
But of course, it encounters the opposite ear drum.
“Are you for real?” The spider complains,
“Forget it, I’ll just see what’s on the web.”

I poke my head into your room to ask a question.
And find
You
Clutching your stomach,
A fistful of chub in each hand.
You stare at yourself
With disgust,
With loathing,
With sadness.
“Fuck,” you say.
And I realize
That if I ever love myself,
It will be in spite of you.

Have a seat;
You’ve had an awfully long day.
Look at that frown.
Look at those shoulders,
Sagging and droopy.
You’ve got bags under your eyes,
And you look pretty miserable to me.
Here, try some of this stuff.

There, look at you now,
Smiling and dopey.
Laughing at me even now.
Doesn’t that feel better?
Don’t you wish things could be this way,
For the rest of your life?

Uh oh,
You’re coming down.
Steady now,
Don’t be irritated.
Here, have some more.
There you go.
There’s that goofy grin.
Don’t you love this shit?
This is some good shit.

What are marshmallows?
Do you know?
Does anyone know?
Who makes them?
Do the people who make them know?Sugar and water and some shit.
But what else?
What is that some shit?
We wanted to learn more,
So, we met with a pack of Jet-Puffs.
Below is the excerpt of our interview:

I enter.
I order a double mocha ice cream on a sugar cone.
It’s as expensive as any ice cream in the city,
(Really fucking expensive; like ten dollars or some shit).

I exit the shop and lift the cone to my mouth.
I do so too quickly; the ice cream is already melting.
It falls from the cone,
It struggles to reach the ground through the heat
(At least that’s what it seems like).
And my heart breaks.
Watching that ice cream,
That beautiful, ten-dollar fucking ice cream,
Fall offensively slowly
To splatter on my pant leg.

The mosquito went on trial,
Accused of being a pest
And a nuisance
And a vagrant
Preying on human blood.
The plaintiff made opening arguments:
“Your honour,” they opened,
“The defendant has taken numerous blood samples from my client without their consent.
What’s more, the purpose and value of their existence is questionable.
It is only right, your honour, that they pay in equal measure
For the quantity consumed.”

The judge considered these arguments.
“And now, the defense will present its counter-arguments.”
And the mosquito, being a mosquito, said nothing.
And, being a mosquito, did not know it had to bring representation.
It was not even sure where it was.
“Very well, then,” the judge said, glaring judgmentally at the defendant.
The plaintiff crossed the floor,
And squashed the mosquito flat as a pancake.
“Court dismissed.”

A beetle walks into the ray of sun at my feet.
I tread it underfoot.
Thus spake the beetle, as it took its dying breath:
“What the fuck man,
Why would you do this?
I was just making my way outside.”
And it passed.